The title of the second program in the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra season was The Concerto – An Adversarial Friendship. Perhaps to alleviate some of the confusion surrounding the title of the first program,
visiting leader Elizabeth Wallfisch appealed to semantics to explain
the title. She observed to the audience that the word "concerto" has
conflicting roots. One root leads to unity, as in the concept of a
"concerted effort." The other is divisive, based on the "con" prefix,
shared with words such as "contrary" or, for that matter, "conflict."
From this she concluded that a concerto is driven by the opposing
motives of the unity of the ensemble and the separation of the solo
voice(s).
This seemed perfectly satisfactory, except that the
program offered only two concertos "in name," one by Georg Philipp
Telemann and the other by Johann Sebastian Bach, and a Telemann sonata
for four violins that was very much a concerto "in spirit."
(Wallfisch's remarks preceded this sonata.) The rest of the evening
might have been better entitled Early Program Music (not "the
origins of program music," mind you, since some of the earliest secular
music was programmatic). This was represented by two of the
"fasciculae" from Georg Muffat's Florigium Secundum collection
("Inseparable Friendship" and "Noble Youth"), Heinrich Ignaz Franz von
Biber's "Nightwatchman's Call" and "Battle" depictions, and Johann
Heinrich Schmelzer's "Fencing School" balletto.
These works all
reminded the listener of how far the concept of program music has
progressed since the seventeenth century. Each consists of a series of
short movements, each of which offers a single depiction. Length is
achieved only through the number of movements, with little thought to an
overall narrative arc or metaphorical journey. Coming from a time when
music was more part of a diverting background than a focus of
attention, one wonders if these pieces were intended as recreational
puzzles at a social gathering: Could the guests really "hear" the moans
of the wounded musketeer in the final movement of Biber's "Battle;" or
were the depictions of gunshots realistic enough to make them recoil in
fright?
Introducing Bach's E major violin concerto, BWV 1042, at
the end of the evening, Wallfisch observed that the program served to
establish the historical context of making music from which Bach's
practices emerged. This should help us appreciate just how radical Bach
was, whether it is in the far more disciplined dramatism behind the
melodic material he selected to set sacred texts or in his seemingly
unending capacity for invention in his keyboard suites (which I have
taken to be the ultimate inspiration for John Coltrane's jazz improvisations).
Unfortunately, last night's performance of Bach was not particularly
well served by being preceded by roughly two hours of social diversion
that was never intended for serious listening, nor did it rise above
that context to highlight the significance of Bach's differences.
Ultimately,
the evening was dominated by the musical equivalent of parlor games,
all executed dutifully but without very much spirit. Any one of these
novelty items had attributes of interest; but the "package" was too
much of a good (or at least diverting) thing. (In a modern context this
was less like spending an evening with John Coltrane and more like
listening to one of Dr. Demento's radio programs in its entirety!) The
result was that, by the conclusion of the concert, little energy was
left for Bach on either side of the proscenium; so Wallfisch's
observation about Bach bringing in a "new age" was simply not
demonstrated by the music as performed.
Showing posts with label Philharmonia Baroque. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Philharmonia Baroque. Show all posts
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Thursday, December 17, 2015
September 15, 2009: A cello master class with Steven Isserlis
In conjunction with his visit to San Francisco to perform with Philharmonia Baroque,
Steve Isserlis offered a master class at the San Francisco Conservatory
of Music last night under the auspices of the Conservatory Baroque
Ensemble. The scope of the class was narrowed down to five movements
from three of the unaccompanied cello suites by Johann Sebastian Bach
(the first three movements of the first suite and the opening movements
of the fifth and sixth suites) performed by four students. I have
always found these master classes to be one of the Conservatory's most valuable offerings. I continue to hold to the precept that the essence of a concert lies in the listening (which Igor Stravinsky made a point of distinguishing from mere hearing) experience; and one can only cultivate one's skills in listening to music
by building up one's "experience base." However, because the enjoyment
of music is a social one (rather than being purely subjective), we keep
facing the challenge of communicating to others about our experiences, discovering that it is never an easy matter.
Thus, while cello students may seize the opportunity to play for Isserlis in the interest of becoming better performers, the rest of us can enjoy the chance to sit in the audience and witness the communication that takes place. Isserlis' talent lies not only in his technical skill (or, for that matter, his voracious love of repertoire). It is also firmly grounded in his own talent for listening, and much of his master class had to do with his communicating observations based on the experiences of listening to these four students. Thus, while the students (hopefully) become better cellists, the rest of us continue to build up our skills as listeners and reinforce those skills with new thoughts about communicating them.
Isserlis' first comments concerned the courante movement from the first suite, and that strikes me as an excellent way to begin. Living in the 21st century, we easily forget that "courante" and "allemande" were the names of dances (perhaps because we have so little knowledge of how those dances were actually executed). For both of the movements he discussed, rhythm was of primary concern. not so much in terms of what the beats were (which one could read from the notation) but in how energy was distributed across those beats. That distribution of energy has more to do with what distinguishes a courante from an allemande than the fact that the former has three beats to the measure and the latter has four. By beginning with a sense of distributed energy at the measure level, Isserlis could then escalate to the movement as a whole, talking about how it is "punctuated" into phrases through the use of cadences. He demonstrated his points through the prosody of texts he uttered concerning a visit from his mother-in-law, a clever analogy, since the impact of prosody often has more to do with connotation through acoustics than the logical denotations of semantics. Having established that these movements were fundamentally dances structured by their "punctuation," he could then discuss the "journey" of traversing the entire structure. That discussion involved some rudiments of music theory; but the theory served primarily to offer a language that facilitated the description of the journey, rather than an end in itself.
Having established his strategy for communication over a dance form (albeit an unfamiliar one), Isserlis could then exercise that same strategy on the prelude movements. Like the preludes in The Well-Tempered Clavier, these movements are not based on a common formal structure. Nevertheless, each of these movements still has its own "journey;" and that journey is still demarcated by the low-level management of rhythm and the phrase-level understanding and execution of proper punctuation. Thus, one need not hide behind vacuous phrases like "free form" in addressing such movements, because they are as "committed to the journey" as the dance forms (more familiar in Bach's time) are.
This then raises a higher-level question, which Isserlis touched on briefly. Is there a "journey" in an entire suite? Is there a "journey" across the set of six suites played in the order of their BWV numbers (which may not have been the order in which they were first conceived)? Isserlis talked briefly about toying with the idea that the full set of suites unfolded the narrative of the Life of Christ. He admitted that his best evidence came from the fifth (C minor) suite depicting the Crucifixion, followed by the Resurrection in the final D major suite. However, he confessed that his argument was pretty shaky; and, on the basis of what I heard, I would probably agree with him! Nevertheless, he raised these thoughts as a way of suggesting that the Nativity might provide a useful back-of-the-mind context setting for the first suite. I certainly sympathize with this idea of a context-setting strategy and often use it as part of the sensemaking that takes place in my own listening experiences. However, whether I choose to escalate the subjectivity of that strategy to a level of social discourse is a matter of the conclusions I draw from it and whether those conclusions are relevant to what I wish to communicate. This seems to be how Isserlis approached his Nativity setting, but it is hard to tell whether or not it had any impact on his students.
I hope I have now made the case that there is much to be gained from these master class events, even if one never gets beyond sitting in the audience. Lest I forget, there is one remaining punch line: Most of these events at the Conservatory are free. As Lee Iacocca would have said, "If you can find a better deal for learning to listen, take it!"
Thus, while cello students may seize the opportunity to play for Isserlis in the interest of becoming better performers, the rest of us can enjoy the chance to sit in the audience and witness the communication that takes place. Isserlis' talent lies not only in his technical skill (or, for that matter, his voracious love of repertoire). It is also firmly grounded in his own talent for listening, and much of his master class had to do with his communicating observations based on the experiences of listening to these four students. Thus, while the students (hopefully) become better cellists, the rest of us continue to build up our skills as listeners and reinforce those skills with new thoughts about communicating them.
Isserlis' first comments concerned the courante movement from the first suite, and that strikes me as an excellent way to begin. Living in the 21st century, we easily forget that "courante" and "allemande" were the names of dances (perhaps because we have so little knowledge of how those dances were actually executed). For both of the movements he discussed, rhythm was of primary concern. not so much in terms of what the beats were (which one could read from the notation) but in how energy was distributed across those beats. That distribution of energy has more to do with what distinguishes a courante from an allemande than the fact that the former has three beats to the measure and the latter has four. By beginning with a sense of distributed energy at the measure level, Isserlis could then escalate to the movement as a whole, talking about how it is "punctuated" into phrases through the use of cadences. He demonstrated his points through the prosody of texts he uttered concerning a visit from his mother-in-law, a clever analogy, since the impact of prosody often has more to do with connotation through acoustics than the logical denotations of semantics. Having established that these movements were fundamentally dances structured by their "punctuation," he could then discuss the "journey" of traversing the entire structure. That discussion involved some rudiments of music theory; but the theory served primarily to offer a language that facilitated the description of the journey, rather than an end in itself.
Having established his strategy for communication over a dance form (albeit an unfamiliar one), Isserlis could then exercise that same strategy on the prelude movements. Like the preludes in The Well-Tempered Clavier, these movements are not based on a common formal structure. Nevertheless, each of these movements still has its own "journey;" and that journey is still demarcated by the low-level management of rhythm and the phrase-level understanding and execution of proper punctuation. Thus, one need not hide behind vacuous phrases like "free form" in addressing such movements, because they are as "committed to the journey" as the dance forms (more familiar in Bach's time) are.
This then raises a higher-level question, which Isserlis touched on briefly. Is there a "journey" in an entire suite? Is there a "journey" across the set of six suites played in the order of their BWV numbers (which may not have been the order in which they were first conceived)? Isserlis talked briefly about toying with the idea that the full set of suites unfolded the narrative of the Life of Christ. He admitted that his best evidence came from the fifth (C minor) suite depicting the Crucifixion, followed by the Resurrection in the final D major suite. However, he confessed that his argument was pretty shaky; and, on the basis of what I heard, I would probably agree with him! Nevertheless, he raised these thoughts as a way of suggesting that the Nativity might provide a useful back-of-the-mind context setting for the first suite. I certainly sympathize with this idea of a context-setting strategy and often use it as part of the sensemaking that takes place in my own listening experiences. However, whether I choose to escalate the subjectivity of that strategy to a level of social discourse is a matter of the conclusions I draw from it and whether those conclusions are relevant to what I wish to communicate. This seems to be how Isserlis approached his Nativity setting, but it is hard to tell whether or not it had any impact on his students.
I hope I have now made the case that there is much to be gained from these master class events, even if one never gets beyond sitting in the audience. Lest I forget, there is one remaining punch line: Most of these events at the Conservatory are free. As Lee Iacocca would have said, "If you can find a better deal for learning to listen, take it!"
Monday, December 14, 2015
September 11, 2009: Apotheosis (?) of the dance (?)
The opening program of the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra was
entitled "Apotheosis of the Dance" because, according to the program
notes by Steven Ledbetter, Richard Wagner had used this phrase to
express his enthusiasm for the seventh symphony (in A major, Opus 92) of
Ludwig van Beethoven. Citing Wagner's text is a risky business.
Anyone familiar with the scurrilous twaddle of his polemics should
probably know enough to approach his encomiums with caution, if not run
madly in the opposite direction. Fortunately, the quality of the
performance itself at Herbst Theatre last night was not at all impacted
by either the dubious naming of the program or the questionable
informative value of the program book. Beethoven's seventh was the
highlight of the evening, the only work played after the intermission;
and the opportunity to hear it performed on instruments appropriate to
the period (I try to steer away from more aggressive phrases like
"historically accurate" or, worse yet, "authentic") provided a perfect
complement to those of us who are familiar with performances on modern
instruments.
I have read enough of the debates between those trying to honor the period and those who prefer working with what technology now provides to avoid coming down on either side. It is sufficient to say that the two camps are different, and one of the best ways to hone one's listening skills is through acquaintance with a broad diversity of approaches to performing a familiar composition. The nature of this particularly difference lies in two characteristic features. Most important is the element of control. At the risk of sounding too reductive, I would suggest that the history of instrument building has followed a path toward doing more with the instrument and doing it more reliably. Those who oppose the "period" camp like to observe that those older instruments were ornery beasts played badly by those now taking them in hand (and probably by those who played them in their proper period). The other feature is one of uniformity. With the increase in control came the aspiration for an ensemble in which the individual voices blend, rather than stick out among each other. Whatever the professed virtues of this goal, the composers we tend to like best have always recognized that too much of it can be a bad thing. Indeed, the reductio ad absurdum of "acoustic blending" is Muzak, whose mind-numbing qualities were brilliantly captured in the soundtrack for the old 1956 movie of 1984, in which all public spaces were infused with the sound of Beethoven being played Muzak-style.
It is this quality of "going against the blend" that makes a "period" performance of Beethoven interesting; and the seventh symphony serves as a prime example. The orchestration makes a heavy commitment to both winds (pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, and bassoons) and brass (pairs of "natural" horns and trumpets), along with two timpani. In a contemporary orchestra these instruments provide supplemental coloration to the string section, which carries most of the weight of the composition; but under the Philharmonia Baroque each instrument was a distinctive voice, escalating the symphony experience to a level of conversation that we tend to associate only with chamber music. In this setting we can recognize that this symphony embodies a deeply dramatic (far more important than balletic) character. Under Nicholas McGegan's direction this drama plays out as any good drama should, leaving us all on the edge of our respective seats wondering what will happen next, no matter how many times we may have previously heard this music. This is not to say that contemporary orchestras miss out on that dramatic quality, but Philharmonia Baroque has sought to achieve it through means consistent with Beethoven's original resources. We should celebrate this difference and enjoy the good fortune of being able to hear this music performed from both points of view.
The first half of the concert was devoted to Joseph Haydn, beginning with the D major "Clock" symphony (Hoboken I/101) and followed by the C major cello concerto (Hoboken VIIb/1) with soloist Steven Isserlis. I must confess here to a strong personal bias on the "period" side where Haydn is concerned. For all the attention we give to Haydn's inventiveness in matters of melody, harmony, counterpoint, and structural architecture, he had an equally inventive intuition in his conceptions of "the sound itself." This is particularly apparent in his chamber music, and I first appreciated it through my exposure to his piano trios. This same appreciation came easily in the first half of last night's concert, first through the interplay of sound qualities in the symphony and then through the sounds of the dialog between the solo cello and the orchestral ensemble. From this point of view, McGegan served Haydn as well as he would then serve Beethoven; and his engagement with Isserlis was all that one could hope for in the "acoustic intercourse" that lies at the heart of Haydn's approach to concerto form.
Let me close with one last twit to that dance metaphor. In the entire evening there was only one movement explicitly marked as a dance form, the Menuetto third movement of the Haydn symphony. However, in a typical gesture of Haydn wit, the composer specified an Allegretto tempo for this movement, making it entirely unsuitable for the execution of the steps of a minuet. He clearly wanted it this way. He did not want anyone dancing to music that was better served by listening!
I have read enough of the debates between those trying to honor the period and those who prefer working with what technology now provides to avoid coming down on either side. It is sufficient to say that the two camps are different, and one of the best ways to hone one's listening skills is through acquaintance with a broad diversity of approaches to performing a familiar composition. The nature of this particularly difference lies in two characteristic features. Most important is the element of control. At the risk of sounding too reductive, I would suggest that the history of instrument building has followed a path toward doing more with the instrument and doing it more reliably. Those who oppose the "period" camp like to observe that those older instruments were ornery beasts played badly by those now taking them in hand (and probably by those who played them in their proper period). The other feature is one of uniformity. With the increase in control came the aspiration for an ensemble in which the individual voices blend, rather than stick out among each other. Whatever the professed virtues of this goal, the composers we tend to like best have always recognized that too much of it can be a bad thing. Indeed, the reductio ad absurdum of "acoustic blending" is Muzak, whose mind-numbing qualities were brilliantly captured in the soundtrack for the old 1956 movie of 1984, in which all public spaces were infused with the sound of Beethoven being played Muzak-style.
It is this quality of "going against the blend" that makes a "period" performance of Beethoven interesting; and the seventh symphony serves as a prime example. The orchestration makes a heavy commitment to both winds (pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, and bassoons) and brass (pairs of "natural" horns and trumpets), along with two timpani. In a contemporary orchestra these instruments provide supplemental coloration to the string section, which carries most of the weight of the composition; but under the Philharmonia Baroque each instrument was a distinctive voice, escalating the symphony experience to a level of conversation that we tend to associate only with chamber music. In this setting we can recognize that this symphony embodies a deeply dramatic (far more important than balletic) character. Under Nicholas McGegan's direction this drama plays out as any good drama should, leaving us all on the edge of our respective seats wondering what will happen next, no matter how many times we may have previously heard this music. This is not to say that contemporary orchestras miss out on that dramatic quality, but Philharmonia Baroque has sought to achieve it through means consistent with Beethoven's original resources. We should celebrate this difference and enjoy the good fortune of being able to hear this music performed from both points of view.
The first half of the concert was devoted to Joseph Haydn, beginning with the D major "Clock" symphony (Hoboken I/101) and followed by the C major cello concerto (Hoboken VIIb/1) with soloist Steven Isserlis. I must confess here to a strong personal bias on the "period" side where Haydn is concerned. For all the attention we give to Haydn's inventiveness in matters of melody, harmony, counterpoint, and structural architecture, he had an equally inventive intuition in his conceptions of "the sound itself." This is particularly apparent in his chamber music, and I first appreciated it through my exposure to his piano trios. This same appreciation came easily in the first half of last night's concert, first through the interplay of sound qualities in the symphony and then through the sounds of the dialog between the solo cello and the orchestral ensemble. From this point of view, McGegan served Haydn as well as he would then serve Beethoven; and his engagement with Isserlis was all that one could hope for in the "acoustic intercourse" that lies at the heart of Haydn's approach to concerto form.
Let me close with one last twit to that dance metaphor. In the entire evening there was only one movement explicitly marked as a dance form, the Menuetto third movement of the Haydn symphony. However, in a typical gesture of Haydn wit, the composer specified an Allegretto tempo for this movement, making it entirely unsuitable for the execution of the steps of a minuet. He clearly wanted it this way. He did not want anyone dancing to music that was better served by listening!
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